


Under the Cold Moon

by dsa_archivist



Category: due South
Genre: Christmas, Drama, Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2000-01-24
Updated: 2000-01-24
Packaged: 2018-11-10 15:07:38
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,263
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11129298
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/dsa_archivist/pseuds/dsa_archivist
Summary: Ben learns the true meaning of Christmas.





	Under the Cold Moon

**Author's Note:**

> Note from Speranza, the archivist: this story was once archived at [Due South Archive](http://fanlore.org/wiki/Due_South_Archive). To preserve the archive, I began manually importing its works to the AO3 as an Open Doors-approved project in June 2017. I tried to reach out to all creators about the move and posted announcements, but may not have reached everyone. If you are (or know) this creator, please contact me using the e-mail address on [Due South Archive collection profile](http://archiveofourown.org/collections/duesoutharchive).

Disclaimer: This story is written for the private

Disclaimer: This story is written for the private entertainment of fans. The author makes no claims on the characters or their portrayal by the creation of this story. Fraser, Vecchio, et.al. belong to Alliance. No infringement of any copyrights held by CBS, Alliance, CTV or any other copyright holders of DUE SOUTH is intended. This story is not published for profit, and the author does not give permission for this story to be reproduced for profit.

 

Under the Cold Moon

by Cassandra Hope

(Copyright December 1999)

Selected excerpts from the journals of Constable Benton Fraser, RCMP.

 

25 December 1987

I don't know when I finally realized that I wasn't going to make it. Maybe it was when the trail disappeared behind that curtain of fat, wet flakes driven at a force no human was meant to withstand. Maybe it was when I realized I could no longer feel my hands and feet and actually welcomed the occasional needles of pain that still wracked my legs. Maybe it was when I realized I was lost--lost in a white carpeted, white curtained, wind-whipped landscape of no recognizable landmarks. 

I called to the dogs (even though it burned my throat to do so) and they obediently slowed the sled. The snow swirled about me and, fearing the loss of my sled and team, I cinched a rope around my waist and knotted it to the dogsled. I chuckled briefly as I gazed at the garish red paint of my new RCMP sled (a sick joke I was sure perpetrated by my fellow officers). I fervently hoped that the paint would quickly succumb to the harsh climate. Either that or I'd have to take some sandpaper to it! 

I peered through the blanketing snow searching for anything that would tell me where I was. I knew this route by heart but in this blizzard familiar landmarks were lost to the howling wind. I couldn't continue in this storm. I had to find some shelter for my dogs and myself.

I knew I was somewhere between Platte Lake and Clark's Fork. I'd been on this trail for four hours when the storm began to move in. I reasoned (incorrectly I might add) that I could make it to the shelter of the small settlement at the fork. Maybe it was my pride that drove me onward, refusing to turn back. Maybe it was a fault in my weather-sense that led me to believe that I had time to reach Clark's. Whatever the cause, I now faced my peril and realized that castigating myself would accomplish nothing. I must use all of my wits. I must use everything I had learned from my teachers--from Quinn, Eric, and my father-- to save myself from my folly.

I gazed around at the curtain of snow once more. Shelter...Hanson's cabin...it literally sprang in my mind. Hanson's cabin. If I followed the river I could find shelter at the abandoned cabin. Even with the roof caved in, there would be ample shelter from the storm. I called to the team and turned the sled around. I had crossed the river ten minutes ago, surely we could find our way back to it.

* * *

There are no words to describe my elation when the sled finally skidded over the snow-covered ice of the river. I halted the sled once more and (risking frostbite) removed a glove and dug into my pocket for my compass. I certainly didn't want to take a wrong turn now that I'd found my guide. Orienting myself, I placed the compass in my pocket and briefly struggled to place the glove on my stinging hand, thankful for the pain because it told me my hand had not yet succumbed to frostbite. The pins and needles increased as I flexed my fingers. Grinning behind my grandmother's scarf, I turned the dogs to the left and began our slow journey toward Hanson's cabin and shelter.

I don't remember how long we traveled before I noticed that the snow had let up. I could actually see the riverbanks and the line of stately trees that paralleled its course. The air burned as I breathed it in and my exhaling produced a cloud of moisture that coated my scarf with patches of ice that I was certain hung in icicles. I still wore my snow goggles mainly as protection for my eyes from the wind-driven snow. Heaven knows the sun had ceased to shine hours ago and I had no worry for snow blindness. 

I halted the sled once more resting the team. They settled onto the snowy ice either sitting or lying down. I stepped from my place on the sled and stamped my feet relishing the resultant stinging as circulation sluggishly increased. I removed my gloves and stuffed them in my pockets then fed each hand into the sleeve of the opposing arm of the coat. Working quickly, I soon had my hands pushed up into the sleeves next to my arms. I shivered as my arms felt the unaccustomed coldness of my hands. I smiled as I thought of the sight I must make with my hands stuffed up my sleeves as I stomped around my sled. I must look like some aboriginal snowman performing some unknown ritual. My chuckles were short lived as I turned to see what had caught the attention of the dogs.

Bart, my lead dog, nosed the air and yipped excitedly. The other dogs, singly and in pairs, took the hint and nosed the air as well. The sled jerked as they jumped in place or tried to follow their noses. It was at times like this that I wished for the nose of a dog or wolf. What had attracted their attention? My poor senses only saw white and smelled only the moist snow-laden air and the ever-present scent of pine and spruce.

Replacing my gloves on my now partially warmed hands, I returned to my place at the rear of the sled, gave the dogs the signal, and let them lead the way. We continued along the river for about 200 meters before the dogs turned the sled to the right bank and pulled us up and off of the river. Through the lightly falling snow I made out a clearing and in that clearing was the prettiest sight I had ever seen--Hanson's cabin. We had made it to shelter.

I coaxed the team to a halt near the door of the cabin. Glancing around I noticed a shed where none had stood before. I noticed the repairs made to the cabin itself. The door now hung on functioning hinges; shutters covered the gaping holes where the windows had been. With a start I realized that Hanson's was no longer abandoned. Someone had obviously moved in. 

Instead of flinging the door open I knocked hoping that someone would answer. I called to whoever was inside and identified myself. I had no idea if my words were intelligible or not. After what seemed like hours but was only a few minutes, the door was opened a crack and a wary eye studied me. The crack widened and a woman of indeterminate years invited me into her home. I begged her pardon and asked if I could tend my dogs first. She glanced around me and motioned toward the shed saying something about her husband's team. Thanking her, I led the dogs to the shed and inside. 

Out of the blast of the arctic wind, the interior of the shed felt almost like a sweat lodge. I unharnessed the team and fed them from my supplies. The woman joined me and showed me where to find water and extra straw for bedding for my dogs. We watched as Bart and the others ate, satisfied their thirst, then nosed into the straw, and curled into balls, their noses tucked in their tails. With a woof, Bart let me know that I was dismissed. The woman grinned at me and led the way back to her cabin. 

If the shed had felt like a sweat lodge, then the cabin felt like a sauna. I quickly shed my parka and my other trappings enjoying the freedom from their heaviness. My feet shot daggers through my legs as I stumbled to a chair and sat down. I struggled with my mukluks but my fingers were so stiff and cold that I could not remove them. The woman knelt at my feet and efficiently removed them. Motioning me toward the fireplace, she told me to warm myself while she fixed me a bite of dinner. She arranged my coat and scarf over the back of another chair letting them dry in front of the fire. Before placing the scarf beside the coat she remarked on the beautiful combination of colors. I explained to her about my grandmother. She smiled and placed the scarf carefully on the chair with my other outer trappings.

I gladly settled into one of the chairs before the fireplace. Stretching out my feet to the heat, I held my hands out as well, my frozen limbs hurting as they warmed. The woman glanced briefly at me before leaving the room. I studied the cabin. It had been almost a year, 7 months to be exact, since I'd last been here. I could see the changes that had been made. The center beam of the ceiling had been replaced as well as most of the floor. The fireplace chimney had obviously been repaired and I only then noticed the single stocking hung from the mantel. I could see through the fireplace that the small room behind the large main room had been converted to a bedroom. A small loft had been added over this back room and as I studied it I noticed that I was being studied in return. I smiled and waved at the small face that hung over the edge of the loft. The small boy returned my smile but spoke not a word. His face disappeared when the woman returned to the room.

Glancing toward the loft, the woman smiled thinly. "My name is Amanda, Amanda Barber," she said as she laid an assortment of dishes on the table. A pot of water was placed on the stove for coffee. "My husband is a Mountie."

I nodded. I had met Steve Barber at the post a couple of months ago. He was a strong and sturdy individual--well suited for life here. 

I ate the food placed before me thanking Amanda, as she wished to be called, for it. After trail rations her food was heavenly. I caught a couple of glances toward the loft and I realized then that my introduction at her door had been mumbled. Amanda had no idea who I was, what I did, and if I posed a danger to her and her family. Her glances toward the loft were of a mother trying to protect the child up there. 

I wiped my mouth with the napkin and rose to my feet. I could not help but see the tightening of her face, the narrowing of her eyes. Was she afraid of me? I reached for my coat and dug within its furry depths for my 'secure' pocket. Removing my ID, I handed it to her. "I'm Constable Benton Fraser, RCMP, Ma'am. I met your husband when he stopped by my post a few months back. You have nothing to fear from me."

I thought she was going to pass out. It was like someone let the air out of a balloon as she collapsed back onto the chair she'd sat in as I ate. I apologized for giving her such a fright. She pushed the hair from her face and nodded once. I also told her that her son was safe with me as well. 

She started and glanced quickly at the loft. "Ricky," she called and the small face reappeared at the edge. Glancing at me once more, she beckoned the boy to come down. He sprightly complied, racing down the ladder and skidding to a stop a few feet from us. He stared at me with wide eyes and asked if I really was a Mountie like his dad. I smiled and nodded my head at this engaging child.

Settling into my chair once more, Ricky crawled into my lap and demanded a story. I was more than happy to comply and, as Amanda did the dishes, I told story after story to the small boy. I did not realize how much time had passed as I related Inuit tales and adventures until Amanda touched my shoulder. It was time for Ricky to go to bed. The boy reluctantly left my lap and headed toward to ladder. 

"Will Papa come home tonight?" he asked, prolonging his climb to his bed in the loft. Amanda spoke of blizzards and blinding snow and seeking shelter. She glanced at me at hint of sadness about her eyes. Papa might be laid up somewhere waiting for the blizzard to clear. Ricky nodded in understanding but I could tell that he still expected his father to be there in the morning. I could not help but remember my own childhood and the many times I had asked the same question. 

When Amanda returned from tucking her son in, she spoke in a whisper. The tree was in the cold room, the decorations as well. All that was lacking were the presents. Steve has promised to return before Christmas with them. A sad note entered her voice as she spoke of her husband and the planned Christmas surprise. It looked certain that the blizzard would indeed waylay Santa somewhere. I nodded my head in understanding.

Not one to let someone down, I volunteered to help set up the tree and decorate it. She smiled and as soon as we were certain that Ricky was asleep we did so. It was small, no more than 4 foot, but it was green and it smelled of spruce and the forest. The popcorn chains and nutshells ornaments, the paper stars and the rag ribbons, the brightly colored paper rings and the sprigs of holly berries, the crudely painted pinecones and the clothespin soldiers, the angel that had seen better days lovingly placed in the position of honor on top...I had not seen a more beautiful tree since my childhood. All it need were the presents. 

We stepped back and admired our work. The warm light from the single lamp cast shadows against the far wall. With a sad sigh, Amanda excused herself going into the small bedroom behind the fireplace. She returned with an armful of blankets and quilts. Apologizing for not having a second bed, she handed the coverings to me. I smiled and shook my head. "I prefer the floor," I told her. That brought a tiny smile to her face and a softening of her dark brown eyes. She bid me goodnight and retired to the small bedroom. I spread the bedding on the floor in front of the fireplace. One last chore and I could retire for the night. Rising to my feet, I tugged my mukluks on and shrugged into my parka. I wanted to check on my team before I turned in.

Opening the door of the small cabin, I stepped out into a winter wonderland. The howling wind had blown the clouds away and after dying down, the full, silvery moon shown down on the silent winter landscape. Tall pines and spruce bowed beneath their caps of snow, sparkling like diamonds in the moonlight. A wisp of a breeze teased the fallen snow into miniature fairyland of castles and forests of white. Icicles hung from the corners of the cabin glinting in the moonlight like abbreviated bolts of lightning. The air was crisp and cold, carrying the scent of pine, wood smoke, and home. I closed my eyes for a moment giving silent thanks to God for placing me in this land of such beauty. I could not even begin to imagine a life anywhere else but here in the stark lands of the far north.

Entering the shed, I knelt among my dogs, calling each by name and scratching behind an ear or rubbing an exposed belly. Nine dogs. Glancing at my hideously red sled, I laughingly called them by new names: Dasher, Dancer, Prancer, and Vixen, Comet, Cupid, Donner, and Blitzen. Buck became my Rudolph. He didn't appreciate the honor bestowed on him nor did the others of the team. Sighing, I once more filled the dishes with food and water. As I refastened the covering on my sled, a thought struck me and I grinned from ear to ear. I lifted the covering of the sled and removed the small set of woodworking tools I had purchased myself for Christmas. 

I returned to the cabin with my tools in hand. All I needed was a suitable piece of wood. I hurried back outside and around to the side of the cabin to the woodpile. I gathered an armload (after many discards) and carried it inside. Deposited in the woodbin, I removed my coat and mukluks and settled in front of the fire with my tools and my choice of wood. I mentally thanked Grandfather for taking the time to teach a young child how to carve. I labored over my piece of wood watching the slivers and flakes and wood shavings fly. A four-legged animal gradually emerged. A moose...oops, no, a horse was coaxed from its hiding place in the heart of the wood. A bit of sandpaper and Ricky had a present. I placed the mighty steed beneath the tree. There it waited patiently for Ricky's loving care. In the small stocking I placed and apple and an orange, a box of milk duds and a KitKat bar (my own indulgence to my sweet tooth). I knew the candy and fruit would make a small boy very happy.

Lying on my bed beside the stove, I slipped into a contented sleep.

* * *

I woke early and rose silently. I did not want to trouble Amanda and planned to leave as soon as possible. I folded the bedding, gathered my tools, and started for the door. My eyes slid to the fireplace and the small room behind it. Amanda was a fine wife and mother. Strength like hers is what made living in this country possible. Her husband, Steve, was a good man, a good officer of the law, the kind of man that overcame obstacles and survived in this land. I knew this family would prosper and I also knew that I would return again and again. 

I glanced down at the scarf my grandmother had knitted and the set of woodworking tools.

The cold predawn air cut across my face as the dogsled rushed across the white vastness. I missed my scarf but I knew that its new owner would appreciate it. I also knew that the tools would soon be used to teach a young child how to carve. 

I learned a great lesson that night--one I'd heard over and over, but it wasn't until that night, that Christmas Eve, that I truly understood the lesson. It is more blessed to give than to receive. 

 

Copyright December 1999 by Cassandra Hope

Comments are welcome at 

baktrak@earthlink.net

 

 Visit my website at 

http://www.geocities.com/baktrak1


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